


Journey through the West

by KayleeArafinwiel



Series: The Tale of Penthronnil [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: Penthronnil accompanies the sons of Elrond and their company to the Ered Luin. There, she has an important choice to make - one that will shape the next part of her journey, and perhaps affect more than she could begin to dream of.





	1. Unsettling Reflections by the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the High Elf/Elven Prologue of LOTRO.

 

It had been a beautiful summer’s day when Elrond’s messengers had set out –  now it was Yávië, the season of autumn, and the _enderi_ were fast approaching. Penthronnil, intent on her own quest, had remained dutifully in Celondim for the last turning of Isil. The silver orb had made his way from new to full, to new again, and on this night, she found she could not sleep.

 

Taerthon, a Noldo like herself, had remained with her in Celondim, and she walked down to the docks to see him standing there in the rain.

 

“Greetings, Taerthon,” Penthronnil murmured. “What do you here? The weather is not kind tonight. Lord Ossë’s wrath is plain to see.”

 

He turned to her with a radiant smile. “But Penthronnil, have you not heard the good tidings? The time has come to sail to blessed Valinor! We have waited only one month, but each day has seemed a year since we arrived in Celondim. The burdens of this realm shall soon be behind us, but I am curious if the sons of Elrond found what they sought in the ruins of Edhelion. I have heard many tales of the sorrowful history of that place, and how it came to ruin by the hand of disreputable dwarf named Skorgrím Dourhand, but it has laid empty for many long years now. I wonder if anything remains to be found there....”  
  
Taerthon trailed off, and Penthronnil raised a skeptical eyebrow.

 

“You call this a good night for sailing, Taerthon?”

 

He shrugged slightly. “I have never walked upon the shores of the Blessed Realm, but I have heard many tales of Valinor. Our forebears once dwelt there, did they not? Did you as well?”

 

“Oh, of all the ridiculous nonsense, Taerthon – you are only as old as I…” She cut herself off. _As old as I was,_ she finished silently. _As old as I was. I have missed an Age of the world, but it is not to say it had no effect on me._ Taerthon paused a moment to study her face.

  
“You look restless, my friend. What troubles you on such a joyous day?”  
  
“Other than the fact that I forgot my own age,” Penthronnil muttered, a trifle sardonically. “Nay, though my forebears came from the West, I was born in Lindon. I have no recollection of Gondolin which was my parents’ home, not to mention the Blessed Realm.” She sighed. “Besides that…I have been granted the grace to sail to Valinor, but I am not sure whether I am prepared for such a thing.”

 

Taerthon looked confused. “Why would you wish to remain here? As you must know well, the lands of Valinor heal all ills and replenish our spirits. The concerns of this realm are ours no longer!”

 

“That is nonsense, Taerthon,” Penthronnil huffed, frustrated. “I was born to rebels, though not Kinslayers. Why should the Valar welcome one such as I?”

 

Taerthon’s carefree smile vanished, as he realised Penthronnil was unconvinced. “I see. Perhaps you should reflect upon the paths of your friends and kin to guide you?”

 

“Perhaps,” Penthronnil agreed, turning away. As she walked further down the dock, examining the ships which rocked back and forth in the storm-tossed harbor, she thought of Cirdan, who had surely directed their building. The Shipwright, she knew, was kin to the Sindar, and friend to the Noldor, remaining behind in Middle-earth that the Elves could return West. _Sacrifice,_ she thought, wondering if Cirdan himself would ever depart. _Such sacrifice must mean something to him._ She rubbed her ring Nirya thoughtfully, the image of Cirdan as she remembered him rising before her. He seemed to smile at her, then disappeared.

 

Penthronnil left the docks then, returning to the main settlement of Celondim. As she walked the cobblestone paths, so like Lindon’s roads, her thoughts turned to the fallen King. _I am so sorry, my King,_ she thought. _You commanded me to save Thelaron, and I could not – and I could not protect you, either._ Guilt washed over her, but she refused to cry. The rain streaked down her face, a mockery of the tears she would not shed. _I will do my best to honor your sacrifice, your Majesty – yours and our people’s._

Whether it was Nirya’s doing, or simply her thoughts, a vision of Gil-galad shimmered before her. _Be well, my child,_ she heard in his familiar voice. _I forgive thee._ Tears stung her eyes, and she pressed on through the rain, returning to shelter in front of the Archives. Her hand pressed against the wall as she crouched on the front steps.

 

Thinking of Gil-galad naturally brought her back to Elrond, who had bidden her go and given his blessing for her to Sail. _He could have sent me West himself,_ she realized suddenly, eyes widening. _I would have had no choice. But he kept me in Imladris, no doubt a strain on his wellbeing as I lay in tortured sleep for so long. He cared for me himself rather than passing me on. That, too, is sacrifice._ Elrond’s familiar smile lingered in her mind, and she kissed Nirya’s turquoise stone lightly, wondering if Elrond might feel it. _Thank you, lord. For everything._

The rain slowed and stopped. Anor was rising in the east, and as the golden light tinted the sky, Penthronnil’s thoughts were driven to her own Lord, Glorfindel, who had made the ultimate sacrifice that her family and their people might live. _And yet the Valar returned him,_ she thought, recalling his face as she stroked Nirya lightly. Hope filled her, and then she called one more face to mind.

 

Harthalin. She supposed she ought to be angry with Harthalin, for she remembered now some of that last stand against the Easterlings, how it seemed Harthalin had left her and her beloved Melui alone to face the Witch-king. But two elves were hardly better than one, unless the other Elf was Lord Glorfindel, she thought. Harthalin was older and more powerful than she was, yes, but powerful enough to stand against such a wraith – perhaps not. Harthalin had been given the choice and decided to remain. _Perhaps we may become friends again, and fight side by side once more._

Penthronnil returned to speak to Taerthon.

 

“Ah, so you return. Where has your reflection led you, Penthronnil?”

 

“I will stay,” Penthronnil replied simply. “I have made my peace with my past, and my pain. Here is where I belong.”

 

“It is not the choice I make, but I understand it, friend. You have made it your purpose to confront the forces of evil wherever they take hold, and though it does not seem so here in Celondim, it is true that great evils are again at work in this realm. You see, while you were reflecting, Elladan and Elrohir arrived in Celondim and asked to speak with you at once. I told them I would deliver their request when you returned, and they now wait for you near the stable-master. My path leads to the Uttermost West, but it seems yours now leads elsewhere, May the Valar guide you, and may you one day come to find peace in Valinor!”  
  
“May it be so, though it is not this day for me,” Penthronnil agreed, and clasped arms with Taerthon. “Fare you well.”

 

Taerthon smiled, kissed Penthronnil’s cheek, and walked down the dock to the ship that awaited him. Penthronnil, meanwhile, went in search of the twins, and found them conversing with Master Roherdir, Celondim’s stablemaster, as they cared for their mounts.

 

Elladan turned to her with a relieved smile. “Penthronnil, I am glad you have not yet departed! I feared we would be too late....” He traded a look of concern with his twin, and they led Penthronnil aside to speak privately with her.

 

“There are grim forces at work in the Ered Luin, my friend. The terrible Gaunt-Lord, Ivar, has bound vile spirits to the corpse of the Dwarf-lord. Skorgrím, and now the Dourhands think him their leader reborn! Our foes escaped, and now the Enemy has beguiled the Dourhands into his service!”  
  
“What?” Penthronnil’s eyes widened. “Lord Elrohir, is this true?”

Elrohir nodded grimly. “Indeed, the truth must be told. When father spoke of the shadow in the East, he spoke of Sauron. The Dark Lord has returned once again, Penthronnil, and he has sent his servants across the many lands of this realm in search of the Ring that was lost. If Sauron recovers the Ring, no host shall remain to stand against him and all will be lost.

 

'The time shall soon come when the peoples of this realm are called to war, and I beg that you remain to guide them, and make safe the lands of Middle-earth. It is a great demand to make of one as storied as you and at so final an hour, but I would not ask it if the need were not dire. It shall soon be a realm of Men, and it must survive for them to inherit it! I beg you -- will you remain?”

“Yes, my lords, I have chosen to remain,” Penthronnil replied, addressing both the sons of Elrond. Elladan exhaled in relief. “To have you among the forces that stand against Sauron brings me new hope for the days that lie ahead. You should aid the folk in Celondim and the lands beyond to hone your skills for the battles that surely await us. When the time comes, we shall call on you to join us!”


	2. The Vale of Nen Hilith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penthronnil begins to do her part to aid the people of Ered Luin, beginning with the elves in Celondim, who have given her houseroom over the past month.

When the twins had gone their own way, Penthronnil found her way to her hostess, Eilian. “I have decided to remain, Mistress Eilian,” she confirmed at the elleth’s questioning look, “though I may not remain in Celondim for ever. What may I do to be of assistance to you?”  
  
Eilian smiled. “Well, it would not be a service to me alone, but our Lord Cardavor may require your assistance. Speak with him over by the piers, if you will. He seems very concerned, and from what I know of the tales of your bravery, you may be able to aid him.”  
  
Penthronnil curtseyed to Eilian and headed northward toward the piers. She found an ellon standing alone as though lost in thought, his brow creased with worry. The thin band of gold that circled his brow identified him for her.  
  
“My lord?” she said softly.

 

He started nervously, turning to face Penthronnil. “Ah, hello there. We have not had time to get acquainted. My name is Cardavor, Lord of Celondim. And you are...?”  
  
“Penthronnil, my lord Cardavor,” she replied. “Mistress Eilian suggested I might be able to help you.”

Cardavor nodded slowly. “Well met, Penthronnil. I have heard of you, and that you are well-travelled...perhaps you have seen my son Avorthal on your journeys? I received a message from him saying that he was coming from Duillond to visit, but he has not yet arrived. That is most unlike him.”

Penthronnil frowned slightly. “I do not recognise the name, my lord, but perhaps he was merely delayed?”

“Hmm…in his journeys here, he oft speaks with the travellers along the road and visits the vale of Nen Hilith with a friend of his, a dwarf named Athal. Athal watches the road and helps the few dwarf-travellers who come to Celondim. Perhaps Avorthal is speaking to him now and has simply forgotten the time. Would you seek him?” Cardavor looked at Penthonnil anxiously. She gave him a proper curtsey.

“Of course, my lord.” She knew the vale of Nen Hilith by name, and it would be easy enough to find. The difficulty would be speaking to the Dwarf, she thought as she walked along the path. She paused when Laenin hailed her.

“Did you need me, Laenin?” She eyed the Glade-watcher.

“I would ask a favour of you, seeing as Lord Cardavor has spoken with you. Our time is closing in this land. Soon we will be but legend and memory to the mortals who will remain upon these shores. While we are still here, however, we must do what we can to ensure that these lands remain safe and beautiful.

The preservation of the land is why I have come to the port of Celondim. My brethren and I have been looking into recent events in a glade to the north. I am here to enlist any willing to go there and assist us in discovering the source of an infestation of sickle-flies among the trees to the west and south-west of the port. If you are willing, remove the threat of the sickle-flies from the trees and report to Ovorlas at Nen Hilith to the south-west.”  
  
“I am willing to do that,” Penthronnil agreed. It was where she was already going, after all. She called her bear, Saerui, to her side – Melui was of the past. Best to leave her there.

With those tasks in mind, Penthronnil left Celondim for the surrounding valley, heading in a southwesterly direction. As Laenin had feared, there were many vale-flies – insects almost as large as Penthronnil herself, when their wingspan was accounted for. Saerui rushed them, crushing their heads in before they could reach Penthronnil, though the elleth had her staff at the ready just in case. Saerui’s way was most efficient, though, and Penthronnil counted more than half a dozen struck down before they reached the camp of Nen Hilith.

There, Penthronnil spotted three Elves seated around a campfire, speaking companionably with each other. Nearby sat a Dwarf. Penthronnil was not too fond of Dwarven folk, but she had promised Lord Cardavor, and so she approached him respectfully, if somewhat warily.

“Greetings, Master Dwarf.”  
  
“Athal at your service, Loremistress.”  
  
Penthronnil’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I have not earned my mastery yet; still, I thank you. My name is Penthronnil. The Lord Cardavor has sent me to seek his son Avorthal. Have you seen him?”

“Nay, I am still here waiting for Avorthal. He requested I meet him here at the vale of Nen Hilith and has yet to arrive. I meant to enter the vale myself, but the elves bade me not enter and being that Avorthal is not here to speak for me I dare not risk angering them. I am sorry that I cannot be more help to you or Lord Cardavor,” Athal replied. “It is not like Avorthal to be late -- at least not without sending word -- nor to put aside his usual habits. Still, he has spent much time in contemplation in recent days. When Avorthal desires solitude for quiet thought, he spends much time beneath the white trees in this vale. Perhaps he is amongst them now, unbeknownst to anyone. Would you go there and find him? I would of course, but I shall not defy the will of the elves.”  
  
“I understand, Master Athal,” Penthronnil said. “I will go and seek him in the vale.”

“Make your way into the vale of Nen Hilith and search for any signs of Avorthal. I pray you find him hale and hardy, but if not, perhaps you will find some sign of him -- even just his pack.”

“I will do my best, Master Athal. Can you tell me first, where is Ovorlas?” she requested. “Laenin sent me to him.” The Elf so named stood up from his place at the fire.

“Mae govannen! Laenin had you fighting back the sickle-flies? Good. It has become necessary to drive them out of the forest, lest they kill the trees. Your aid will be welcome here, Penthronnil, for there is much to do.”

“I will do my best to aid you,” Penthronnil said, “as will Saerui,” she added. The brown bear snuffled Ovorlas’ hand as he reached out to her.

“You have Laenin’s gratitude, and mine, to be sure.” Ovorlas gave her staff a doubtful look; it had seen her through the journey from Imladris and her stay in Celondim, but it had become much worn in that time. “Take this staff – a gift from Laenin – and may it aid you well.”

Penthronnil took the staff, thanking Ovorlas. “Then I will leave this one with you. It was a gift from Lord Elrond; I imagine it is my fault it wore out so swiftly.”  
  
“Nay, Penthronnil! For songs are sung of your stand against the Witch-king an Age past; doubtless the battle left you greatly weakened, but now you are regaining your power once more. As your abilities return, you will need more powerful weapons to match them,” Ovorlas explained. “Wolves have overtaken the vale; we were beginning to despair, but your arrival heralds a time of hope. We have yet to discern what caused the wolves to empty into this valley. Perhaps with your assistance, we will soon learn the reasons behind the invasion.

The other glade-wardens here, Glavrolnen and Helhathel, will explain the tasks that I set before them. See to their requests and earn their favour, and you shall have mine.”

Penthronnil nodded, turning to Helhathel, who was nearest. “Mae govannen,” she greeted the Sindarin elleth. “What can I do to help?”

“Mae govannen, Loremistress. I overheard your discussion with Ovorlas and hope that you are willing to assist us. This vale was once a place of inspiring beauty where we could come and commune with nature. It has fallen far from those days since the incursion of these wolves.

It is unclear where the wolves came from or why they chose to dwell in this valley, but they must be removed to ensure that nature can return to its balance. Enter the valley and destroy the wolves to ensure the future of the valley.”

For his part, Glavrolnen spoke up. “Yes, the valley’s future. Our efforts here are to recover the land from this new threat, that is clear. We are also here at the behest of our kinsmen. In Celondim, there is a vintner who wants only to make a final offering to store enough wine to survive our journey to the west. I have offered to recover enough wood to build such a cask. You will need to search the wood in this vale for wood that has not been spoiled by the sickle-flies or the wolves. Return to me when you have collected enough sturdy pieces of wood, and I will grant you my favour.”

 _Don’t want much then, do they?_ Penthronnil thought wryly. She nodded. “I will do ask you ask,” she agreed. Together with Saerui, she walked down the slope into the valley. It would be a lovely place, she thought, with all the white trees about – if only there were not so many wolves prowling! Saerui charged the wolves, leading them off, as Penthronnil sorted through the nearest woodpiles. The occasional wolf would come to snap at her, and she beat them back with the butt of her staff, taking care to keep its gleaming blue crystal well away. She counted at least ten wolves dead before she had collected enough wood for a cask.

Tucking the bundle into her pack, she continued battling her way through, working with physical blows instead of using her power. A dodged blast of fire or lightning could go very badly indeed in a place like this.  
  
Soon enough, she found the tattered pack, lying at the base of a tree beside the body of a dead goblin. Scooping it up and calling for Saerui, Penthronnil hurried for the camp once more. She did  _not_ like the look of  _that._

First, she spoke to Helhathel. “Saerui and I have slain many wolves, down in the valley,” Penthronnil reported.

Helhathel smiled. “Nature calls once again from the vale, I can feel it course through my being. We cannot rest on this virtue, but you have brought hope where there was sorrow, Penthronnil. You have earned my favour.”  
  
“You have also earned mine,” Glavrolnen said, as Penthronnil placed her bundle of wood before him. “This should please the cooper and the vintner both. The White Ships will certainly now be supplied with the finest wine from Ered Luin.” He paused. “Now that you have collected the wood I would ask one more favour from you, friend. The cooper in Celondim, Bregedúr, needs the wood to craft his casks. I would ask that you seek him out at the highest levels of Celondim on the tiers of the crafters northeast of this location. Deliver the wood to him that he may build a proper cask.”  
  
Both elves gave Penthronnil some coin in thanks for her work. Ovorlas, for his part, offered a new hat, for the wolves had torn Penthronnil’s. She accepted it gratefully, then came to Athal. “I found this satchel amongst the trees, Master Athal.”

“This is Avorthal's pack, I am certain. I fear that something untoward has befallen my friend. Please, take this to Cardavor and tell him that I will do whatever I can to help find my friend -- his son.”

“I will, Master Athal,” Penthronnil promised. She left Nen Hilith behind, making her way back to Celondim to seek out Lord Cardavor and Master Bregedúr.


	3. An Interlude for Crafting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penthronnil really isn't keen on giving Lord Cardavor the news she has been charged to deliver - so she finds herself procrastinating. Among Lord Elrond's parting gifts was a commendation to Celondim's Master of Apprentices - Penthronnil's former Master, Golphenedir. The Crafters of Celondim, after all, also have much to teach her...but at last she must face her fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly an interlude between B2MEM prompts: it's moving Penthronnil forward on her journey, with nothing really important taking place until the end. This chapter is far less based on LOTRO dialogue than the others have been.

Penthronnil was rather ashamed to admit it to herself, but she was afraid to face Lord Cardavor. _I found his son’s pack by a dead goblin,_ she thought, bile rising in her throat. _What can he say to me for that? He is the master of this place and look how poorly I have repaid him for his care!_ She turned her steps instead toward the Crafting Terrace. Amongst the gifts Lord Elrond had given her was a letter to commend to the Master of Apprentices, if she was inclined to stay, and it was there he could be found.

She walked through Celondim, Saerui padding at her side, and ascended the curved stone staircase to the Crafting Terrace.

Master Golphenedir she knew, she realised – he had _been_ her Master, once, and had gifted her with Nirya when she had left him. He greeted her with tears in his eyes. “Ah, my dear Penthronnil!”

“Master,” she murmured. “I fear I have forgotten much you have taught me in the ways of scholarship.”

“Fear not, my dear,” he replied softly. “We will make a historian of you yet. Besides the study of scholarship, I would have you try weaponsmithing when you can, and farming; these trades will stand you in good stead when you must barter with others.” He provided her with beginners’ tools for the three crafts.

“Yes, Master,” Penthronnil said dutifully, if a bit meekly. She remembered how well she loved growing things; farming would be little hardship. But smithing, for a slip of a thing like her? Well, she could try.

“If naught else, it will give you your strength back,” Golphenedir said as though he were reading her mind. Curubrannon, the Master of Crafting Guilds who stood to one side, barked a short laugh. “So this is your prize pupil, is it? She seems a bit weak to me.” Penthronnil bristled.

“I _will_ be a Master Scholar one day, you will see!” she retorted, temper flaring.

“I have no doubt we will,” Mistress Miluiel, the provisioner, said soothingly. “Now come, enough fighting. Go and speak with our fellow crafters and fare you well on this journey.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Penthronnil said, chastened. Golphenedir chuckled.

“Go see Thavroniel. She is a novice yet, as are all these studying here, but she will start you on your journey toward scholarship.”

Penthronnil didn’t need telling twice. She went up the short flight of steps to the study and found Thavroniel there.

“Greetings, Penthronnil! Our Master has told me much about you. Are you resuming your studies? Then you will need these.” Thavroniel opened a crate. Within lay a scrap of text, much worn, and a relic of the early Third Age – something Penthronnil had not yet seen but was eager to study. “Using your glass, we will create a scroll of scholar lore together,” Thavroniel explained, and Penthronnil set to work under her fellow pupil’s direction. It came back to her more easily than she had thought, and soon the scroll was complete.

“May I see it?” Thavroniel asked. Penthronnil handed the scroll over carefully. “The script is elegant indeed, and there are no errors. You are well on your way to becoming a true scholar, and our Master will be proud.” Thavroniel grinned, and her happiness was infectious; Penthronnil’s spirits soared.

 

“Take it, you may need the scroll later,” Thavroniel added. “For now, you ought to see Dantlassil about weaponsmithing.” She laughed as Penthronnil’s smile faded. “Fear not, she will not ask much of you. Go on. You would not want to disappoint our Master.”

“Indeed not,” Penthronnil murmured. She touched Nirya lightly, and the lesser ring’s power warmed her. “Thank you, Thavroniel.” She descended the steps, crossing the cobblestone platform to the forges. Dantlassil stood waiting for her.

“How may I be of service, Penthronnil?” Dantlassil asked.

“My Master wishes me to learn smithing,” Penthronnil replied.

Dantlassil chuckled. “You need not look so glum about it. Do you at least know one end of your hammer from the other? Here you are.” She opened a supply crate for Penthronnil. “Something easy. These are bronze ingots, and we can make them into throwing axes…so.” She picked one up and began crafting at the forge. Two throwing axes emerged. Penthronnil watched carefully, keeping Saerui well back as the sparks flew. When her turn came, she picked up the other ingot and did her best to repeat Dantlassil’s performance.

When Penthronnil was finished, she had two throwing axes – not as well-made as Dantlassil’s, but serviceable. She showed her work to Dantlassil nervously.

“These are well-crafted weapons, especially for a first try,” Dantlassil said warmly. “You are doing well at becoming a smith, if such you desire…I see you do not,” she added wryly. “But trying is all your Master and I ask. Keep them, all of them.”

Penthronnil tucked the four small axes into her pack. “Thank you, Dantlassil.”

“Oh, you are welcome,” Dantlassil said. “I wish you success on your journey, my friend.” She paused. “Perhaps, before going up to the field to find Ialadur, you will speak with Bregedúr.”  
  
Penthronnil swallowed and nodded. “Yes, I think I had better,” she agreed meekly, “and…perhaps Lord Cardavor.”

Dantlassil gave Penthronnil a sympathetic smile. “Yes, you may as well do that. Go in peace, Penthronnil.”

With a sigh, Penthronnil left the smithy, turning right. She reached a workbench where Bregedúr was busily crafting, but he finished in time to collect the wood from her. “Ah. Loremistress! I thank you for the wood you have brought. If you would take a moment, I have a request of you. A dear friend to me, Brethilwen, spends her days tending the grapes at Limael's Vineyard to the north and west. She sent word to me not long ago that she required a cask for a special wine she wanted to present upon the White Ships. I have just crafted a cask for her, but I need someone to take it to her since the preparations for our departure keep me very busy. Would you take the cask to her? You will find her to the north and west at Limael's Vineyard.”

“Of course, Master,” Penthronnil said agreeably. Saerui growled. “After,” Penthronnil sighed to herself, “I speak to Lord Cardavor.” She could only put him off so long.

“Perhaps you might speak to Ialadur first,” Bregedúr said with a sympathetic smile. “The farmland is just up the hill, that way.” He pointed up the cobblestone path that led away from Celondim, uphill from the crafting terrace, and with a sigh of relief, Penthronnil nodded. She trotted away with Saerui at her heels.

On Penthronnil’s left, as she ascended the path, a wall of rock jutted out, but it ended abruptly. She went around it and found the sheltered farmland there. Ialadur, the young farmhand, was waiting for her, and bade her coax a field of onions from the land, with a handful of seed, a bit of fertilizer, and a bucket of water at her disposal. She took the tools her Master had given her and set to work.

With Elven power at her disposal, it did not take long for the onions to be ready for harvesting. She practiced the new skill Ialadur had taught her, to track the presence of other food she might forage on her journey. “Now prepare the crop at the workbench, and select an onion to present to me,” Ialadur instructed.

Penthronnil looked around her. There was no workbench. “Where?” she asked. Ialadur gave her a mischievous smirk. “Back at the terrace.”

“Oh, you…” Penthronnil just refrained from throwing her hoe at the annoying ellon. Her Master would not approve. “I’ll come back,” she promised. “Saerui, come.”

Saerui growled but followed obediently as they returned to the terrace to find an open workbench. Bregedúr allowed them his for their use, and then they were ready to return.

When Ialadur accepted the onion from her, his eyes glowed with pleasure. “This is the finest onion I have seen in some time. You are well on your way to becoming a farmer, if it is your wish. I am sorry I teased you so,” he added. Penthronnil reluctantly forgave him, even taking lessons on crafting other crops. The longer she could put off meeting Lord Cardavor again…

She lost herself in the song of the earth and the feel of her power flowing through the lilies, vegetables and even pipe-weed flowers that she coaxed from the ground. Ialadur laughed when, finally, she came out of her seeming trance, heaps of crops piled about her. “You will make a master farmer yet, Penthronnil! Perhaps you will no longer seclude yourself with dusty scrolls.”  
  
Well, farming was enjoyable. Still, Penthronnil did not wish to disappoint her Master. “We will see,” was all she said to dignify that response, and took a sack to carry the fruits of her labour. She would process it in the crafter’s terrace and use the crops to repay the Lord of Celondim for his hospitality…and for her failure.  
  
The light in her eyes dimmed as she returned to the terrace. She threw herself into her work, cleaning and processing the crops she had grown, and by the time she was finished, Faengamil, the cook, had come to see her work. “May I have those?” she asked, pointing to the vegetables. “I will give you a good price for them.”  
  
In the end, Penthronnil ended up selling her everything. It was easier than bringing them before Cardavor…though now she would have to go see him, anyway.

Reluctantly, she returned to Cardavor, and knelt before him, holding the satchel she had found. “My Lord,” she began, eyes downcast.

Cardavor shook his head, raising her to her feet. “What tidings do you bring me, Penthronnil?”  
  
 “Goblins, lord,” Penthronnil whispered. “I saw one dead beside this satchel.”  
  
Cardavor took the satchel from her, and his eyes widened. “This is Avorthal's satchel, I am certain of it! Do you see this pattern on the side? Avorthal stitched that himself long ago. And you say there were goblins among the ruins? You bring me fell tidings. You are sure there were no other signs of Avorthal? Some sign that my son might have been hiding nearby, safe from the goblins but too far away to reclaim his satchel? Nay, that is a weak hope, and I must not trust to it. The goblins have brought down my son, my Avorthal. That is the only answer.”  
  
“I am sorry, my lord,” Penthronnil said, tears in her eyes. “I have failed you.”

Lord Cardavor’s gaze was terrible to behold. “The goblins have slain my son, Penthronnil, and for that we will sweep them from Ered Luin! No goblin will take as much as three steps into these lands before we are there to greet him with swordblade or arrowhead! Go forth and slay goblins wherever you find them and cry aloud the name of Avorthal. I would have the foul creatures know whose doom has come upon them!”  
  
“I promise, my lord,” Penthronnil whispered, quivering. “I will not fail you again. I must not.”  
  
“While you were gone, word came to me that Limael's Vineyard has been defiled by goblins led by a vile creature called Pampraush. Seek out Pampraush and his minions and slay them in the name of Avorthal! Limael's Vineyard lies north-west of Celondim,” Cardavor added.

Penthronnil swallowed hard. _Goblins!_ Master Bregedúr had asked her to go to Brethilwen at the vineyard – she wondered what she would find. “I will go, lord, and do your will.” She hoped Brethilwen still lived.


	4. Pressing Onward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penthronnil travels to Limael's Vineyard, and while clearing out the goblins, learns more of Prince Avorthal's fate. Lord Cardavor - and others - send her onward to Duillond, the River-haven, to aid their kindred, leaving Celondim behind.

Penthronnil made her way to Limael’s Vineyard, following the directions Master Bregedúr had given – north and west, through the hills of Falathlorn, and across the river to the wine-house. The way was treacherous, for there were wolves and wild boars to fight off, but they were not as much trouble for Penthronnil as they might once have been – especially with Saerui at her side. The vineyard beyond had, as she had been warned, been overrun by goblins; she would have to fight her way through. Saerui stayed nearby as Penthronnil sought Brethilwen in the wine-house.

 

“Greetings, Mistress Brethilwen,” Penthronnil said, sighing in relief when she found the other elleth safe. “I am Penthronnil. Master Bregedúr sent me with this cask for you.”

 

“My thanks, Penthronnil,” came Brethilwen’s reply. “By this time of the year, most of the grapes have been picked and the wine already bottled. This was a very generous season, however, and many of the vines are still laden with grapes. I would welcome your assistance. Wine-making is not easy work, but performing this task will certainly add to your appreciation of the wine you drink.”  
  
“It does sound like hard work,” Penthronnil agreed. “I will do what I can.”

 

“Harder still when nasty goblins find their way into the fields and drive you off. I think though you might be sturdy enough to aid me. If you would, gather the grapes from the vines still hale and hearty enough and I will see that this cask is filled with the finest this vale has to offer. The vineyard is below us and further to the west along the stone path,” Brethilwen directed. Nodding, Penthronnil exhaled slowly and headed down the stone path. She and Saerui would be ready.

 

It wasn’t long before they came within sight of the grapevine frames, situated around a large lake. Goblins were prowling around them, and on both sides of the path; quickly, elleth and bear set to work rushing goblins. Penthronnil took care to fight with staff-strikes only; using the powers of fire, ice and lightning could do damage to the grapevines if she was not careful.

 

Eventually, she reached Pampraush, the goblin leader. _After the Gwetherain, this should be an easy fight…_ But that had been long ago, she reminded herself, much longer than the mere few months it seemed. The goblin leader was larger than his minions, but not so tall as Penthronnil herself; he was skilled, however, and it was a long fight as Saerui kept other goblins away from them.

 

Finally, it was over. With his dying gasps, Pampraush spoke to Penthronnil, however, and his words chilled her. "If you're looking for the Elf-prince, you're too late! The Dwarves have him now!"

 

 _The elf-prince! Avorthal – taken by the Dwarves?_ Memories of Thranduil and Amroth stirred, and she forced them down, turning sharply away from Pampraush’s corpse. “Come, Saerui, we must go.” They walked back toward the grapevines, Penthronnil collecting fallen wine-flasks to take her mind off the words. Penthronnil gathered the grapes Brethilwen required, and then returned to the other elleth, winded from the task.

 

“Thank you, my friend.” Brethilwen smiled. “Years from now, your efforts today will bring great joy to many. Hard work brings satisfaction, not just in wine-making but in all things.” Penthronnil’s hands and legs had become scratched in the battle – Brethilwen offered her a healing salve, as well as new gloves and leggings to replace her torn clothing. “Here you are. Take them in thanks for your work – and this.” She drew a flask of wine out. “The last vintage of Ossiriand. Keep it, if you will, and I would ask you one last favour. I have filled the cask that Bregedúr sent me. Of your courtesy, return it to him.”

 

Penthronnil thanked Brethilwen for her gifts and packed them away. She accepted the cask, balancing it on Saerui’s back for the moment. Then they returned to Celondim.

 

When they reached Bregedúr, he was speaking with an elf Penthronnil only knew by sight. “Forgive the intrusion, Master Bregedúr,” she said. “Mistress Brethilwen sent this for you.”   
  
“Thank you, Penthronnil. I understand that Brethilwen was beset by goblins and that you fought many off to obtain this spirit. Know that it was for a worthy cause.” He smiled at her. “May I make you known to my friend Thinglaer?”

 

“Greetings, Master Thinglaer,” Penthronnil said, managing a smile in return.   
  
“Greetings, Penthronnil. This is a beautiful land, is it not?”  
  
Penthronnil nodded. “I think Falathlorn is quite beautiful,” she agreed.

 

“I wandered it often in my youth -- but places that were once fair have long since fallen into decay. Some of the older ruins have even become habitations for foul creatures that gnaw at the edges of our lands.” Thinglaer grimaced. “My brothers and I have set to ourselves the task of cleansing a few of these places before we leave. To this end, I have in my possession a token given to me by Elrond Halfelven long ago. It is imbued with a light that creatures of evil find painful to bear.”  
  
Penthronnil’s interest was piqued. “Master Elrond saved my life,” she said quietly. “He is very powerful.”

 

Thinglaer nodded. “More powerful than I, certainly. The ruins of Tham Gelair west of Celondim have become infested with foul creatures. If you could slay any you find within, and then place this token there, its light should keep them from slinking back in the night.”

 

“I will try, Master Thinglaer,” Penthronnil promised. Tham Gelair lay to the west of Celondim, and it was not far away.

 

She led Saerui from Celondim and headed for the ruin; once, before the War, Tham Gelair had been a place of feasting and festival. Now there was naught left but a haven for maddened wolves and rats.  Penthronnil gazed upon the ruin, remembering better days when she had heard songs and tales of this storied hall.

 

Saerui charged into the midst of the vermin, needing no urging to attack, and Penthronnil shook herself from her musings. She summoned lightning and ice, driving back the wolves and slaying the rats.

 

 _Are you going to eat them?_ Saerui asked, her link with Penthronnil strengthening as they finished the battle side by side. Penthronnil rolled her eyes, looking at the pile of corpses with distaste. _Eat your fill, my friend, but take care. I know not what else we might find._

Saerui tore into the dead rats hungrily. _The Stone Table is through there,_ she gestured with a paw. _I thought it was a bush at first, it’s all over ivy._

Penthronnil nodded and went into the ruin, treading carefully. The crumbling stone walls were overgrown with ivy and other plants, and in the midst of the central hall, as she remembered it, stood the old table. Penthronnil removed the smooth stone Thinglaer had given her, carved with Elven runes, and lay it reverently in the centre of the table. It began to emit a soft glow, which grew steadily brighter and clearer.

 

She felt that now, Tham Gelair would surely be protected – and how not, when Elrond’s power lay behind it?  
  
When she returned to Thinglaer and Master Bregedúr with the news, they received her triumph with pleased smiles.

 

“Ah, Penthronnil! Your news gladdens my heart. I am eager to walk among the ruins as I once did, with the sky over my head and the sun on my face. The cool shadows cast by the walls will no longer be a reminder of the Shadow in the East, but of respite and restoration,” Thinglaer said. “If only my brother Calengil, in Duillond, knew of it – I am sure he could use your aid in our endeavours!”

 

“I do not know…” Penthronnil said slowly, casting a glance at Bregedúr. “I pledged myself to the service of Celondim in repayment for my debt.”

 

“You pledged yourself to Celondim, and Lord Cardavor may release you from that vow – especially as I sense you have something to tell him,” Bregedúr replied pointedly, raising an eyebrow. “But if you do chance to go to Duillond, I would appreciate your taking this bottle to Dolengyl. I did promise this taste of last year’s vintage to him and can think of none better than you to bring it, Penthronnil. Do this in the service of Celondim, and surely none would call you oathbreaker.”

 

 _Lord Cardavor – of course!_ He would have to know the Dwarves had taken his son, Avorthal. Accepting the bottle of wine, Penthronnil bowed her head. “As you command, Master,” she replied. Bregedúr smiled slightly. “Go on and speak to Lord Cardavor. He doesn’t bite, Penthronnil.”   
  
_He doesn’t bite,_ Penthronnil reminded herself as she approached the grieving Lord of Celondim by the docks. “My lord…I have news.”

 

“News of the vineyard?” Lord Cardavor collected himself. “How fares Mistress Brethilwen?”

 

“Well, my lord, if a bit shaken. The vineyard is freed once more – the goblins destroyed or fled, and their leader dead,” Penthronnil replied, shuddering at the memory. “But, my lord – the leader spoke ere he died, giving me a message. I think you should hear it.” She paused, swallowing nervously.

 

“What is it, Penthronnil?” Cardavor asked bitterly. “More mockery of my son’s death?”  
  
“No, my lord,” Penthronnil whispered. “Avorthal lives. The Dwarves have taken him.”   
  
Cardavor paled. “The Dwarves! We have not had dealings with the dwarves for a very long time, and those are not pleasant memories. Dwarves are scheming and self-serving, not to be trusted!

 

We must gather our strength to lay siege to the dwarves of Ered Luin and rescue Avorthal from their clutches, but only Dorongúr Whitethorn, the Master of Duillond has the authority to muster such a force. Bring him the news of my son, that he is alive, but a prisoner. We must strike at the Dwarves before it is too late!

 

Speak with Toronn at the stable before you go. He will hasten you upon your journey.”  
  
“Yes, my lord,” Penthronnil replied meekly, heading for the stables; she had become fond of Toronn, though he intended to Sail sooner rather than later. Saerui padded at her side, growling softly in concern. It seemed they would be going to Duillond after all.

 

Toronn was indeed at the stables, brushing down a bay mare as Master Roherdir fed the horses. “Penthronnil! Are you leaving Celondim?” he asked.

 

“Word travels quickly,” Penthronnil replied dryly. “Master Cardavor has sent me to Duillond. He asked me to speak to you first.”

 

“Well, if you are going to travel, you need a good horse,” Toronn replied, leading the mare forward. “I think Gilithel would suit you.”   
  
“Thank you, Toronn. I will miss you, my friend,” Penthronnil replied. “I hope I return before you Sail.”

 

“I cannot yet, Penthronnil, for my brother, Bregar is too stubborn. He believes we ought to remain here in Middle-earth. He, too, is at Duillond. If you see him, please tell him he is the cord that binds me to these shores. Until he sees more clearly, I cannot depart, for I will not leave without him. See if he will join me at last, so we may begin our journey.”

 

“I will do my best for you, my friend,” Penthronnil replied, embracing Toronn. She mounted Gilithel. Saerui sniffed the mare, who stood eyeing the bear with a maternal look, recognizing the bear as a youngling. At last, they were on their way, and as Penthronnil rode north from the settlement, she kept her eyes on the bridge over the Lhun…they would be crossing over the waterfalls by sunrise.

 


End file.
